


Lasting Damage

by azure112



Series: BBS oneshots [2]
Category: Banana Bus Squad, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Brian has some good friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Moving On, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rehabilitation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure112/pseuds/azure112
Summary: After months of fighting, a war finally comes to an end.But, not before inflicting some lasting damage on the 'Terroriser' and all that associates with him.
Relationships: None
Series: BBS oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062383
Kudos: 8





	Lasting Damage

**Author's Note:**

> TW; mentions of war, death and injury.
> 
> If any of you have any requests, please comment them down below!

Bombs.

Guns.

Screams.

Death.

They were the only things that could be heard on the battlefield. Everywhere that had been infested by heavy firearm was doomed to become a wasteland for years to come. There was no preventing that. Not anymore.

Brian gritted his teeth as he began to move, running from cover to cover, taking shelter in the wreckage that surrounded him on all sides. The ground was scorched, and the dirt was painted red. How misfortunate must he have been to have found himself in this situation?

The war had been raging on for months by then, and his comrades had fallen in numbers too vast to count. He knew that they were winning; the enemy forces had begun to dwindle in the weeks that had gone by. But even then, he was still unwilling to let go of the people that had got him there to begin with. The people he had lost along the way.

His mission now was to clear the perimeter. Kill the men that had taken shelter in the houses, and ultimately survive. The pain was finally coming to an end. It wouldn't have been long before he was permitted to go home, back to his friends. His family. His dogs.

Oh, how he wished he could turn the clock around, and go back to the carefree days of silly videogames and childish banter. Back when his greatest worry in life was winning a game of Call of Duty, or annoying his friends in Mario Kart. When the word 'terroriser' was an alias, and not a title earned by performance on the field. He missed yelling out in annoyance, and not in anguish or attention. He missed his Dublin street, and the brisk breeze that often blew past the road.

He longed to hear the sickeningly sweet sound of Brock's anguished screams as he tapped his golf ball right off of the side, or feel the satisfaction of throwing a red shell right at David as they played Mario Kart. He wanted to hear the chorus of protest as he sought shelter in the cheapest spots in Gmod, or knifed the entire lobby in a laid back game of Black Ops.

And even if he got none of that, he at least wanted to go back. To the people he called his own, and the friends that loved him dearly. He wanted to hear Evan's reserved little chuckle, and Jon's insane laugh. He wanted to rage with Tyler, and he wanted to laugh with Marcel. He wanted to snort for Anthony, and play with Sark. Heck, he was even willing to sit through Smitty's awful dad jokes, if it simply meant that he was getting to go back home. Away from this place.

The smell of carnage made him sick, and his head would spin every single time. Despite his shaky breath and unsteady hands, more people fell victim to his shots, and more bodies continued to drop. If he wanted to fulfil a single one of his unspoken desires, the first thing he needed to do was survive.

So, with the rest of his platoon right in front of him, he rushed a building under strict orders and careful guidance. Everything had been going according to plan. The enemy was cornered.

But, little did he know that all it took for everything to go south was a single stray grenade.

If the war ever did come to an end, he wouldn't be awake to see it.

_______

_"Brian? Brian!"_

_"Please be alright… please be alright…"_

_"Hang in there, you fucking idiot… don't you die on us!"_

_"Stay with us- you're going to be fine!"_

_"You're going to be fine…"_

Heavy eyelids finally found the strength to open. The bright light right above caused him to flinch, and his eyes closed once more. What was going on?

He lifted his hands, and shielded his face. He needed to adjust to the light, but immediately, something felt amiss. One hand was significantly heavier than the other. And one half of his face was cold, while the other was still so much warmer. Brian laid there silent, and with the index finger of his right hand, he tapped his left cheek. A metallic sound rang in the room, and vibrated throughout his body. He couldn't hear it. But it was there, lingering in the air.

And it was haunting. Unwanted memories flooded his senses, but everything was a blur. Brian tapped the metal again, and with the sound came the image of shrapnel colliding with a shield. He tapped it again, and he could hear the click of a rifle being reloaded. He tapped once more, and all of a sudden, he could see the metal pin of a grenade glimmering brightly in the light.

All it took was that particular tap to remind him that he was on a battlefield. With a loud and panicked gasp, he sat up abruptly and nearly stood up, ready to fight. But, as he did so, an IV drip held him back. Brian looked down at his left hand, and his gaze followed the long tube to a small pack of fluid, likely keeping him fed. Then, his gaze dared to turn to his right hand, and his eyes widened at the sight.

Where there was once a sickly pale shade of skin, all he could see was metal. It glowed underneath the bright light that was above him now, and shone into his eye. All of a sudden, he could feel the all too familiar sting of tears, which blurred his vision further. What was going on?

Had he- was he-?

Surely not...

But it was the most likely explanation.

There had been an explosion, and that too at point blank range. It was all that he could remember. The chilling sight of the grenade haunted him. It had rolled up against his shoe, and before he had even gotten the chance to react, the damage had been done.

He had been caught in the epicentre, and his body must have suffered for his lenience. God, he hoped that he wouldn't come across a mirror. Not after what may have happened to his face.

He could feel his hands shake as he tried to reach up further, and inspect the damage. Against the skin of his organic fingers, the cold metal of his face was hard. He could feel it spread from the base of his ear to his forehead, an obvious slit running through the middle of his face. This _wasn't_ happening, surely. It _couldn't_ be happening- it _shouldn't_ be happening-

He had half the mind to punch himself, and pray to God that it was a bad dream. He wanted to wake up, in his own bed, and realise that everything would have been alright. There had been no war, no explosion, no irreparable damage.

But then again, when had the universe ever been so kind?

Caught within the confines of his own despair, he hadn't even noticed that the door in front of him had opened, and his room was empty no longer. He hadn't heard the soft chatter as it made its way down the hall, or the echoing footsteps as they scampered to the door.

Brian only noticed, far too late, when a body had walked up to the front of his bed, and its form was barely visible in his line of sight.

Immediately, his movements stopped, and his breath was caught in his throat. He could _feel_ movement all around him; his time in the military had sharpened his senses, and he could tell the disturbances in the air. But, the room was deathly silent, and he feared a trap. Had enemies come all the way out here to secure his capture?

With a soft gulp, his eyes trailed up. And up. And up. Stopping only when they had met a pair that was only too familiar to him. Undeniably, it was Brock who was standing in front of him now, his tear filled gaze barely visible from behind his shades. Brian finally knew that he was safe, and let his muscles relax.

But his eyes still dared to wander.

On his right, there was Tyler, Evan, and Scotty. On his left, he could see David and Marcel, though he needed to turn his head further to keep a lock on them. Lips were beginning to move, but not a single sound was getting through. Brian fell back into his pillow, but it wasn't very long before he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around him. Turning his head back to the right, he could see that it was Brock, and without a second thought, he returned the embrace. How he had missed this warmth.

_"I'm so--- gla---d y---'re ok----y…"_

He could barely hear the words. They sounded so distant to him now, but he didn't dare to ask for them to be repeated.

From somewhere nearby, though he couldn't quite tell whether it was from the left or from the right, he could faintly hear Tyler's voice, which had always been naturally so loud, sound almost muffled behind what could have been a wall. However, one visual lock on him, and it was evident that it was not a wall that stood between them now. It was something else entirely.

 _"----I thought that I heard something from here-!"_ his body language made it seem like he was yelling, but to Brian, those words were but murmurs he could barely understand. Come to think of it, clinking metal was rather loud. Why was it that he could barely hear it himself?

"Wha- what's going on..? What happened to me?" Having finally spoken up, it was suddenly evident how disused his voice had become. His throat ached as he slipped out the words, and the concerned faces surrounded him once more. But he couldn't hear himself. His eyes widened once again when he realised that he couldn't hear himself.

"--- explosion, --- damage, --- prosthetics --- couldn't save ---..."

Brian tried his best to listen. But he was struggling. Nothing was getting through. "I'm sorry, lads…" he laughed bitterly. "I think being on the field for so long may have damaged my ears… I can't hear you properly..."

Abruptly, the air stilled. Quietly, he studied his friends' faces; the shock, the grimace, the absolute devastation. Brian laughed out once again, his organic hand reaching up to his face to wipe away a stray tear.

Maybe he had _thought_ that the room was deathly silent earlier. But it was definitely silent now. He gritted his teeth, and pushed down the pain.

"I'm… so sorry…"

_______

To say he felt awkward would have been an understatement. Brian was uncomfortable, and greatly overwhelmed. Being a military dog only meant that he was one in many, and his life was expendable on the battlefield. That being said, he had become an asset, rather than a person. In the months that had gone by, he had begun to believe that sentiment, and relished that sense of worth.

Now, when all was said and done, Brian felt uncomfortable. He was no longer used to love, or care, or attention. It was new to him. And he was trying to relearn that normalcy.

David had taken charge of taking care of him, simply helping him with his daily tasks as he got used to his new limbs. Brock dropped by every so often, and dragged him out of the house to help him as he walked. Evan helped him get accustomed to the newer sets of games that the group had been into as of late, and Brian had already taken a questionable stance on whether or not he liked them.

Rehabilitation was a weird and far from wonderful process. It was surreal for him to relearn basic functions, and fall back into what used to be his way of thinking, before everything else had happened. Hearing aids had been a quick and simple adjustment, but even that didn't feel quite right.

And while things felt like they were finally beginning to fall into place, he couldn't help but notice that Tyler had become quieter, David yelled a little softer and Evan's laughs had become more fragile. Brian, the butt of all jokes for as long as he could remember, was suddenly the subject of none.

No one yelled at him when he messed up. No one yelled at him when he messed _them_ up. He felt like he had been put in a glass case, and the world around him was afraid to let that casing break. As time went by, even he began to feel less comfortable screaming, yelling or arguing.

They were no longer willing to fight him. And he no longer fought back. How could he? His bonds had become more fragile, and he was terrified of letting them break.

Even while playing games, he had to be more reserved. Restricted. First person shooters were no longer an option, for haunting memories tended to arise.

It hurt less over time, but the process was slow. He could vividly remember the moment when he dropped his controller onto the floor, his eyes wide with horror as the sound of gunshot rang in his ear. He couldn't hear the game, so those memories were all he had. His breaths were caught in his throat, and he began to choke. They were playing Modern Warfare, but it wasn't long before he left the call, as well as the game without another word.

Even now, almost a year after his days of fighting had ended, Brian struggled to sleep at night. Memories haunted him every day, and every night. Time could heal all wounds, and it would heal him too. Soon, the voices became more distant, and the battlefield more vague. Things were no longer the same, but they were getting better.

It was early December, and while it didn't snow very often, it had today. Brian smiled slightly to himself as he sat by the window, taking in the view outside. His prosthetics were harder to maintain in the cold, with the joints often freezing up, but he couldn't help but enjoy the newfound warmth of winter.

The frosted glass casted a reflection, and Brian caught sight of it. Peering back at him from the other side was a man, whose face was covered in metal. The red glint in his eye stared deeply into his own, and he hated what he had become. Taking the brunt of an explosion at point blank range had a toll, it seemed, and that toll was a part of his own body.

Brian had lost his face, his arm, a part of his chest and his leg on the field that day. The military had funded him a brand new body, in honour of his services, but a part of him wished they hadn't. Part of him wondered if the ordeal would have hurt less if he had died instead.

But those were thoughts that he couldn't allow to linger. After all, the attempt to silence them had already been made.

_"What- happened to my face…"_

His first glimpse into the mirror had been far from ideal. There was horror in his eyes, and grimace in his voice. A terrified expression that could only spell 'what the fuck am I looking at-?'

David had responded, without a second thought.

_"Honestly, I think that it's an improvement!"_

The tone of his voice was so light, it was painfully obvious that he was joking.

But Brian didn't have the peace of mind to realise that.

_"Well, I suppose it is. Couldn't have possibly gotten any worse than what I had going before, right lads?"_

He smiled fondly at the memory, and held onto the feelings that arose. He recalled, with as much detail as he could, the way Brock pulled him in, and hugged him close. He cherished the warmth, and the gentle acceptance.

Immediately after was a punch in the face. On his right side, that wasn't covered in metal. It was a strike hard enough to linger, yet gentle enough to ease his pain. Tyler was enraged, but his eyes reflected a whole world of hurt.

_"You asshole! Don't ever fucking say that again!"_

And he didn't. Never again did he indulge in those thoughts. They would arise, time and time again; there was nothing he could do to stop that. But he didn't let them consume him. With time, and the patience he didn't realise his friends could have, he was getting through the ordeal.

It was moments like these, when he felt blessed to be alive. He felt blessed for having gotten that second chance, to go back to the days of videogames and childish banter. The hopes that he had laid on the battlefield were thoughts that he could return to. Feelings he could pursue. Reasons to keep on living.

A lasting damage had been dealt. But repairs were already being made.

A light snow fell on a lovely December day. The sun shone rays of hope down onto the people underneath. Brian couldn't help but smile as he watched the beautiful scene.

The other side of hell sure was a wonderful place.


End file.
